


Action Figures

by CaelumLapis



Category: Smallville
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-06-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:34:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24803965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaelumLapis/pseuds/CaelumLapis
Summary: “So. We meet again, Devilicus.”
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	Action Figures

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer is, I don’t own them, not even a little.

The study was quiet, late afternoon sunshine tinting the room in shades of brilliant color from the stained glass windows. Lex was seated at his desk, his laptop displaying yet another LuthorCorp report. And he was reading it, if reading included staring blankly at the pages until his eyes started watering and he was forced to blink. 

He exhaled loudly and impatiently at the screen. Rarely, and only when the situation demanded it, Lex would simply refuse to be an adult. He could do that, he was a Luthor, and as such, he could do anything he wanted. At the moment, that included smirking at the report and closing his laptop. 

There was a bookcase in his office, flanked by others that held books written by or about various important historical figures and an assortment of ridiculously expensive decorative objects. But this particular bookcase, with its locked cabinets, held something of far greater interest to him. An uneducated member of the common citizenry of Smallville might call them dolls; and might then find themselves subjected to the panic-inducing, flesh-ripping, dignity-eliminating effects of an unrestrained Luthor glare. They were _not_ dolls, no matter what his father said. They were _action figures_. And Lex had been collecting them for a very long time, ever since he developed an interest in Warrior Angel. A majority of them were rare collector editions, packaged with the comic book in which that character made their first appearance. They were safeguarded in their plastic and cardboard cases, in a variety of heroic or villainous poses. 

However, in a wooden box in the lowest cabinet, there were a few action figures that had no such protective casing, artifacts of a child who once valued toys based on their merit, and not their financial worth. And not long after he met Clark Kent, Lex had noticed that one particular Devilicus action figure, with its shiny plastic dark hair and muscular build, looked remarkably like him. And the Warrior Angel action figure that also occupied this box, missing one of its wings and a boot, looked a little like Lex. It would look a lot more like him if he were inclined to wear spandex, sprouted a dingy white plastic wing from his shoulder blade, and worked out until he doubled his size in sheer muscle mass. But that was irrelevant, and as Gustave Flaubert, Aby Warburg, Mies van der Rohe or _someone_ once said, God is in the details. Lex was an atheist, and as such he could disregard details if he felt so inclined. The box also held a scale replica of Lex’s gemini blue Porsche 911 SC that had been totaled the first time he met the aforementioned Clark Kent. Because he was not sentimental, Lex refused to put that on display where someone might see it and think otherwise. 

Lex crossed the expanse of his office to the bookcase, palming his keys and unlocking it. Sunlight and bright transparent squares of color fell over neat rows of cardboard boxes, their plastic windows revealing Warrior Angel with WingBlade Action Spin Kick and Devilicus with Real Flashing Laser Beams. Lex reached down, lifting the rectangular wooden box off of its shelf. He glanced back at his desk, and then moved over to perch on the couch instead, setting the box down on the coffee table with a reverent gleam in his eyes. 

Devilicus had nine points of articulation, although points five and eight were debatable at best. He’d spent roughly twelve hours immersed in a decanter of cognac three years ago, when Lex had been drinking his way through New Year’s Eve and decided that Warrior Angel should do battle with his nemesis. He had been incredibly intoxicated, and had vague memories of being dragged off and groped in the corner by a debutante from the party before he could rescue Devilicus from the decanter. Devilicus stood on the table where Lex placed him, wobbling a bit on his wide plastic feet. In that way, he was a lot like Clark, who also tended to wobble on his feet when he visited Lex’s study. Then again, that seemed to be more from boundless energy than worn plastic that still carried the faint scent of Ste Christie d’Armagnac. Warrior Angel boasted eleven points of articulation, although since losing his wing in an unfortunate incident with Lex’s first chemistry set, that had been reduced to nine as well.

“So. We meet again, Devilicus.” 

Lex had spent years perfecting Warrior Angel’s voice. It was strong and booming when confrontational, a stern voice that allowed no disagreement. He carefully folded Warrior Angel’s arms over his chest, and turned his head slightly so he glared at his nemesis. 

Devilicus was unable to properly cower with only seven fully functional points of articulation. But he could still tilt his head downward and look appropriately contrite in the face of Warrior Angel’s wrath. 

Lex glanced around the study again. It remained calm and quiet, the only ambiance coming from the sound of a ticking clock and the faint crackle and snap of burning logs in the fireplace. He picked up the Porsche, accurate down to its tiny gearshift, from the wooden box and set it down on the coffee table. It rolled slightly on the smooth glass, and then stilled. 

“Did I hit you with my car?” Lex had Warrior Angel ask, in his authoritarian voice. 

“I told you, Warrior Angel,” Devilicus answered, in a whiny falsetto that sounded like Clark would if he had a severe head cold that was pinching off his air and testosterone supply. “I’d be dead if it had.” 

“Liar,” Lex muttered under his breath as he gently flicked the tip of his index finger against the side of Devilicus’ plastic head, causing a series of wobbles that nearly toppled him over onto his shapely plastic ass. 

“Liar, liar, pants on fire,” he muttered to the expressionless plastic face with a sardonic grin, the childish rhyme of years ago amusing him. And this terrible fate was a distinct possibility for Devilicus with the close proximity of the fireplace, but Lex actually liked Devilicus, as much as he hated to admit it. Besides, Warrior Angel was a noble hero who would never stoop to throwing his nemesis or Clark Kent, Action Figure into a fireplace. A decanter of Ste Christie d’Armagnac yes, but not a fireplace.

Clark Kent, Action Figure. Lex snickered and poked lightly at him, a wicked corner of his brain wondering what sorts of action Clark was up for, pun intended. As much as Lex would love to find out, Clark was his friend, and he didn’t want to change that by complicating things any more than they were already complicated. But that didn’t mean Warrior Angel couldn’t find out what sorts of action Devilicus was interested in. Noble as he was, Warrior Angel was also an advocate of knowledge, and this gallant sponsorship knew only those limits defined by Truth and Justice. 

“Liar,” Warrior Angel declared, not about to be tricked by simplistic denials or distracted by the rippling breadth of Devilicus’ synthetic abdominal muscles. 

“I am not lying!” Devilicus contested hotly, marching up to Warrior Angel in an obvious and ill-advised attempt to intimidate him. Warrior Angel was not so easily unsettled, and he had two-point articulation advantage to prove it. His remaining wing swept out as he spun, smacking Devilicus loudly across the temple. 

Devilicus toppled over, landing with a crash and an ungraceful tangling of limbs. Warrior Angel strode determinedly to the Porsche, opening the door. The headlights illuminated Devilicus’ face as he crept low to the ground apprehensively, watching Warrior Angel with wary eyes. 

“I hit you that day on the bridge,” Warrior Angel stated categorically, his eyes fixing on his nemesis calmly. “Admit it, or I’ll start the car and hit you again.”

His eyes widening, Devilicus froze, bracing himself up on his arms as he attempted without success to stand and escape. Warrior Angel slid into the leather seat and folded his wings at his sides, the Porsche’s engine roaring to life with a steady vroom of menacing horsepower. His gloved hands tightened on the steering wheel, flinty blue eyes studying his nemesis.

Devilicus’ jaw tightened, his shoulders bunching as he shifted to a crouch. The engine revved with an ominous snarl that vibrated through the car. 

“Wait,” Devilicus said, so softly that Warrior Angel almost didn’t hear him. He stood slowly, raising his hands beside him and displaying them, palms outward. “Wait,” he repeated. 

The engine died down, leaving both of them in silence. Warrior Angel stepped from the car, folding his arms over his chest as he stood behind the open door. 

“I’ll give you what you want,” Devilicus said, defeat in his voice. The car door closed with a mechanical thump, and then Warrior Angel stepped forward, eyeing Devilicus vigilantly as he moved closer.

“You did,” Devilicus paused and swallowed heavily before he went on, “hit me.”

Warrior Angel sighed quietly, years of pent-up frustration skirting the edges of his breath. “Why?”

“Why didn’t I tell you? Why didn’t I die? Why didn’t you die?” Devilicus ran a nervous hand through his hair. “I couldn’t tell you.” Pleading green eyes studied him, silently asking for understanding, for acceptance, for something else entirely. 

“What are you?” 

“Something you would never understand,” Devilicus replied, an undercurrent of desolation punctuating his statement. 

“You underestimate the depths of my understanding,” Warrior Angel responded quietly, his arms unfolding to rest at his sides. “We are not so different at the core; you lived, and so did I.”

A brief nod and Devilicus glanced away. “We could have been so much more than this,” he confessed. 

“We still can be,” Warrior Angel answered, closing the brief space between them to rest a hand against his shoulder. Startled, Devilicus met his gaze and then leaned in, brushing his lips tentatively over Warrior Angels’ mouth with a tiny breathed murmur of agreement. Warrior Angel wrapped his arms around Devilicus, tilting his head slightly to deepen the kiss-

“Lex? What are you doing?”

With a startled yelp, Lex dropped the action figures with a clatter of plastic against glass. He blinked, staring up at Clark, who was looking at him curiously, his head tilted to one side.

“Uh… Clark,” he stammered, composing himself with a shaky breath. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“Yeah.” Clark replied, a twinkle of amusement rising in his eyes. “I kinda figured that out.” He bent down, picking up the Warrior Angel figure and examining it, turning it over carefully in his hands as he dropped to sit beside Lex on the couch. 

Lex’s hands moved quickly to rest on his lap, clasped together firmly as he forced himself to breathe and relax. Clark finished his study of Warrior Angel and set him aside; retrieving Devilicus from the table’s surface and peering curiously at him. His lips were pursing and twitching at the corners as he set Devilicus down and glanced over at Lex.

“You’re weird,” he said, a grin finally breaking free and taking over his face.

With a crooked smirk, Lex shrugged lightly, gathering up the action figures and dropping them quickly into the wooden box. “I was bored,” he answered dismissively, silently wondering how long Clark had been standing there. 

“I don’t remember you ever mentioning an issue where Warrior Angel and Devilicus start making out,” Clark replied teasingly.

“They were _not_ making out,” Lex countered, “They were talking.”

Clark snickered, “Oh. Okay.”

“Shut up,” Lex said grumpily.

“Do Warrior Angel and Devilicus talk a lot?” Clark asked, grinning wider, if that were possible. 

“Shut _up_ ,” Lex retorted, putting the Porsche into the wooden box and pulling it closer to him. 

Clark’s grin tamed to a good-humored smile, “Lex?”

“Yeah?”

“It’s okay,” Clark confided, his eyes sincere, “I’m weird too.”

Lex smiled faintly at him. “Yeah, I know.”

Pushing up off the couch to his feet, Clark grinned down at him. “Want to play some pool?”

Picking up the wooden box, Lex nodded and stood. Clark turned and walked toward the pool table, his steps energetic and reminding Lex of Devilicus’ wobbling stance. Lex looked down at the interior of the box, his fingertips gently brushing over the windshield of the Porsche as he closed the lid and glanced back up at Clark.

“Clark?”

“Yeah?” Clark glanced back over his shoulder, a pool cue already in his hands, his eyes curious, open and innocent. Lex wished he could believe them, but as he stood there searching for the questions to ask, he realized that all he really wanted was to play pool, and be an adult again. 

“Nothing,” Lex lied quietly as he forced a small smile into the corners of his mouth, setting the box aside and joining him at the table.


End file.
